My paternal grandfather was a huge Hungarian man whose skin turned a deep leather red in the summer. He had a deep, bellowing laugh and was the life and fun of every party. He would yell out “Buffongoola” and called his mates “Mongolian porkchops” - whatever any of that meant. Everyone knew and loved Al, he was extremely popular in the Hungarian and eastern European communities of New Brunswick, New Jersey and was one of the boys in clubs like the Eagles and Knights of Columbus. He was an extremely hard worker, was smart with his money and provided well for his family. My grandparents had a little bungalow on the Jersey shore where I spent all my summers growing up. Their back patio was the best patio of all because the party was always happening there. Beers were always in the cooler, something was always on the grill and at the center of it all was my grandfather.

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Consider this: the United States of America is a giant restaurant bill. You know, the piece of paper the server puts face down on your table at the end of your meal, and as she does so she performs that neat little trick where she puts a crease along the middle of the bill so it has a handy little ridge by which to pick it up. Am making any sense here?

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If I were a twenty year old rock’n'roll star who was about to die in a tragic airplane crash somewhere in the middle of a corn field, I think I would choose Iowa in which to do it. Clear Lake, Iowa is famous more for a tragic day in February 1959 than it is anything else including the lake regardless of how clear it happens to be. I’m a bit of a Buddy Holly nut. I’m not sure why, I’m not sure it even matters why. I just am. You can ask two of my friends: Amber and Amy. Amber was born in Iowa and not too far from Clear Lake and Amy comes from Lubbock, Texas, the birthplace of the great bespectacled one. Within seconds of befriending them both nearly (and separately) eleven years ago I pounced on them with questions and trivia about their prodigal son. And so, with great enthusiasm, we met with our good pals Amber and Chadwick in Minneapolis with the idea to head south, to Iowa, to Amber’s family farm and, most importantly, via Clear Lake and the Surf Ballroom.

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Dave Says:

We promised ourselves that if we were going to spend time, and therefore considerable expense, touring the USA then we must work hard to treat it with the same bug-eyed wonderment we did with the rest of the world. Well, promises are made to be broken and although this one is relatively intact at the time of writing, it will soon enough succumb to the return of the familiar, erosion of the novelty and ridiculousness’ death march towards the norm. So, before I am sucked back into the vortex of the US here’s a quick stream of observation and, of course, gross generalization of 300 million people.

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Dave says:

The Atlantic Ocean is pretty darn big. We’re two days in and have just left the coast of Ireland. But then, we are going only about 25 miles per hour. As I look out the window it seems faster but who cares ‘cos we’ve stepped back to a time when most things didn’t go much faster than 25mph anyway. The airplane is a flash-in-the-pan novelty and the train, although essential, has become a tedium and best suited for the lower classes. It is impossible for one to drive a newfangled automobile across the Atlantic so an ocean liner is the only reasonable and, let’s face it, civilized way to reach New York.

I’m writing this whilst comfortably ensconced in the aptly named Chart Room, toasting the return of the decent Gin and Tonic and listening to the string quartet do a fair rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. So please, join me as I throw journalistic balance overboard, and tell you about the more quirky side of this most civilized nautical pastime.

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I always felt that in order to maintain any shred of backpacker credibility, I was obliged to apologize for our having purchased passage aboard the Queen Mary 2. Our laundry list of justifications were all, in fact, true statements. We did, over a year ago, make an earnest effort to book passage across the Atlantic on a freighter. All freighters that make the iconic route, Southampton to New York (a necessity for many symbolic reasons) were already booked even back then and much to our astonishment, freighter fare would have been nearly double what we would pay for the worst cabin aboard the QM2. In order to keep our overland dream alive, we begrudgingly booked the cabin. At the time, it sincerely did not fill us with joy and we certainly never considered paying the nominal upgrade fee for the 2nd to worst cabin on the boat much less a window cabin. We were backpackers through and through and wanted our circum-ambulation of the globe to be bohemian, in the spirit of Jack Karouac. Jack would never have crossed on the QM2, probably even if he had had the money, and we felt as though we were committing some sort of betrayal.

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I want to love Russia. I really do. It however, is stubbornly refusing to love me. In my formative years, tales would race around the playground of how one could become a millionaire by stuffing fifty pairs of jeans in your suitcase and jetting off to Moscow. There the luxury starved Ruskies would pay ten times your wholesale price for a chance to dress like you. Throw in a Beatles cassette and they would treat you like a tsar (when they liked the tsar that is). Well, now the Ruskies don’t need my jeans and I can’t help but think they’re treating me like the tsar when they didn’t like him. Short of me and my family being taken into the basement, shot and then disposed of down a well, our Russian hosts couldn’t be more icy.

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72 hours on a train from Irkutsk to Moscow is a long time to be doing nothing. There is no TV, only bad Russian radio and usable conversation between us and our Russian “cell-mates” dried up 1724km ago. I have taken to writing - writing rubbish maybe, but, rubbish none-the-less that you, my captive audience, are now honor bound to read. If I am going to spend three days and nights locked in train compartment for your vicarious pleasure then the least you can do is endure a few paragraphs of drivel.

Style note: I’m writing this in my moleskin notebook - by hand! My middle finger is already rubbed raw from the pencil. Could we have devolved our handwriting abilities in just two generations?

Of my fellow passengers, the Mongolians are still trading, the Russians are sleeping and the Western tourists are all feverishly scribbling in notebooks probably also wondering why their middle fingers are hurting so much. Which, in not so neat cursive, brings me to today’s diatribe: Travel Journals - Why, why not and what’s the point.

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One of the most beautiful aspects of traveling is that moment where you find yourself having arrived upon spot of the world so awe-inspiring and breathtaking, so truly different from anything you have seen before and anything you have at home and it’s all the more special because you know you may never see it again. It’s a feeling of being lucky to be included in the company of people who have had this moment.

I had one of these moments looking out upon the spectacular open countryside of Mongolia. Outside the capitol city is a pristine nothingness like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The landscape is so gentle and fresh and virtually untouched or changed by interfering humans that I’m certain it remains exactly how it was 25,000 years ago. The air is crisp and silent except for the neighing of wild horses. Out there the sun is free to lay a blanket of the most vibrant oranges and purples across the sky in sunsets that stop time. Absolutely nothing in the world could take your eyes off the sky.

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